


Tipsy Topsy

by ActualHurry



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Fantasizing, Fever Dreams, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23619094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualHurry/pseuds/ActualHurry
Summary: LOGIC — Two Kims.LOGIC — …LOGIC —  ???
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	Tipsy Topsy

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt request from Twitter for a fingertips kiss, Kim/Kim. 
> 
> I posted this on my dreamwidth first, which is where most of my lil drabbles go: <https://actualhurry.dreamwidth.org/1016.html>

The black is warm, and it is soft. Leather greets your nose; the setting sun knocks gently at your eyelids. The rhythmic panging in your head you know as well as the beat of your heart isn’t there to quell your attempts to rise, and so it’s easy — easier than usual — to wrest yourself from the anchor of sleep.

The leather, it turns out, is Kim’s Kimeena. The last time you were here, it was…when, again? This has happened too many times to count. You slide from the driver’s seat, through the open door. Kim’s nowhere to be seen, and the keys aren’t in the Kimeena. You lock it from the inside and shut it. If it gets stolen because of you, you won’t ever forgive yourself, and neither will Kim.

INLAND EMPIRE — Add it to the infinitely growing list of things You Cannot Be Forgiven For; none of it matters, and how could it? How can you ever take responsibility for a single one? They are so numerous, a thousand legs of fleeing guilt, all running away from you at once. It’s alright. Don’t chase them. They’ll only hurt you.

You blink, and you’re in the Whirling-In-Rags, looking at the empty karaoke stage. Garte’s nowhere to be seen for the first time since you got here. A disco ball swirls flares of reflected color across the room, shattered pieces of light that play across the walls, the tables, the chairs. All empty. 

COMPOSURE — Stay cool. Keep your head.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — The hairs on the back of your neck are standing up. 

The stairs beckon. You blink, and you’ve climbed them. 

VOLITION — Losing time is nothing out of the ordinary, but this is a new low for you.

Music drifts through the air like the scent of cinnamon perfume, lazy and inviting and heavy with a spice, a zest to the sound that reels you right in. You go, you trail after its brandy notes, until you follow it all the way to your half-cracked door. Dread sits like a pit in your stomach. 

You don’t need to know what’s behind this door.

INLAND EMPIRE — But you do, don’t you see? You do.

You push it open, first with the toe of your shoe, and then with your body altogether.

Inside your room in the Whirling-In-Rags, Kim sits at the edge of your couch-bed monstrosity. He looks up as you arrive, glasses shining like copper wire in this low, low light. The windows are open. It smells like sea salt and air pollution. That smell’s never coming out of the carpet, but neither is all the drink you’ve spilled on it, so what does it matter? 

More importantly, there is a second person positioned on Kim’s lap, legs spread wide across Kim’s thighs. The orange of their jacket bleeds into the orange of Kim’s jacket, and then you realize, as this mystery second person turns their head to look at you, that it’s Kim, too.

LOGIC — Two Kims.

LOGIC — … 

LOGIC — ???

“Detective,” says one of them. Maybe both.

Kim is all angles, but the way one of them settles his weight more comfortably on the other seems so soft, enticing. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this heat worm its way down into your gut like this without the help of intoxication to get you out of your head. And boy, are you _out of your head_ right now.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Oh, push the envelope. You’re not above begging, Detective. You’re not too good to get on your knees.

You come a little closer, because one of them beckons it. You don’t know which one. You see a hand, waiting, and you go towards it like a starving mutt. The Kims bleed into one another; where does one start? Where does one end? At the fingertips, you realize, because that hand reaching out to you is now sliding across the other’s face, his cheek, bumping his glasses askew, thumb against pursed lips.

You think _please_ , or you think _oh god_. There’s not really any in between. You’re just two extremes being pulled away from each other until you’re sure to snap.

Those pursed lips brush against the pad of his thumb. Kim drags his hand farther, index finger pressing right there where his thumb just was, and the other Kim kisses there, too. One after the other, each fingertip gets a kiss. There is nothing awfully sexual about it. Yet you feel it down to the very marrow of your bone, like every kiss is sending a shot of pure fucking _heat_ right into you. You could watch this all damn day.

The fact that they are fully clothed and you are fully clothed and yet you feel as if your decency has been swallowed up and left only with sweltering, oppressing need is possibly something you should be ashamed about. Martinaise has never been hotter, but it was snowing yesterday. The edges of your vision are blurry.

You blink, and you’re finally so much closer to the two Kims, the only damn good part of this fever dream, and —

BACK OF YOUR MIND — Oh, hell. This is a dream.

Both Kims draw you in with sharp glances. One of them smiles, or it could be both. They see right through you, right to your rotten, alcohol-marinated core. As you try to come closer, the small shake of one’s head speaks volumes: they know it’s a dream, too.

Yeah, right. Like you could ever nab one Kim, let alone _two_. The world’s not big enough for someone as good at his job as he is. There’d be no crime left in all of Revachol.

PAIN TOLERANCE — The headache kicks up again. You’re coming back to the surface, where your joints stay sore and your eyes burn and your body is a broken machine long past its prime. Everything hurts. Wake up anyway.

You do. The ceiling stares back at you.

SAVOIR FAIRE — Never, ever tell Kim.


End file.
